


But I'm Losing Grace in a Broken Place

by honey_wheeler, thefairfleming



Series: But I'm Losing Grace in a Broken Place [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 14:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4567773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 1970s Folksinger AU featuring Sansa Stark, scion of Winterfell Records and Down on His Luck Musician Jon Snow. And all other manners of crack, tbh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But I'm Losing Grace in a Broken Place

**Author's Note:**

> While this is definitely a Jon/Sansa Fic (as in Jon/Sansa are endgame here), there will be lots of ships floating about. It's the 1970s Music Scene, after all. ;)

“‘Highgarden _Fayre_?’ Really?”

Wrinkling her nose at Margaery, Sansa takes her gin and tonic, a thin slice of lemon bobbing in the crystal tumbler, and made her way to a nearby velvet settee.

Margaery give an elaborate eye roll, the beads on her top clacking together as she flops next to Sansa, a tiny bit of rosé sloshing from her glass.

“I know, it’s dreadfully _precious_ , isn’t it? But Loras,” she says, shrugging as though the invocation of her brother’s name explains all.

In a way, it does. It had been Loras’s idea to hold a music festival on the ground of the Tyrell estate. Margaery had agreed since anything that involved planning something lovely was right up her alley, and as Sansa sips her cocktail and looks at the rolling green lawn on display from the sitting room’s enormous windows, she has to admit that her friend has outdone herself. The spectacular sunset and the gorgeous summer evening don’t hurt, of course, but there are still signs of Margaery’s special touch all around. Paper lanterns glow from various posts planted into the emerald green grass, and at the end of the gentle slope, just where the lawn flattens out, there’s a small stage. Heavy wrought iron candelabras line the raised platform, the flames of dozens of candle winking. Once the sun has completely set, it will look magical, and while Sansa can’t see the famous gardens at the back of the house, she can only imagine those are even lovelier.

“Cheers,” she says now, clinking her glass to Margaery’s as the dying sun paints this front sitting room in bold orange and vermilion. The glass beads framing Margaery’s cleavage sparkle, and suddenly Sansa wishes she’d picked something a little fancier to wear than her plain white wrap dress. It’s true the icy color of the dress sets off her bright hair nicely, and that the plunging neckline keeps it from being completely boring, but still. A private music festival on the grounds of a country estate? She should have at least worn bolder jewelry than the simple pave diamond hoops in her ears.

“It going to be fun, right?” Margaery says, but Sansa knows she’s not actually asking for reassurance. Margaery Tyrell does not pursue anything without being completely confident that it will be a success, whether it’s a business venture or a party or a pretty girl she has her eye one.

Still, Sansa reaches over and giver her friend’s thigh a brief squeeze. “It’ll be bloody amazing,” she says, and Margaery’s lips curl in a smile.

“You’re a darling,” she says, leaning over to press a brief kiss to Sansa’s mouth. Back at boarding school, Sansa had been one of those pretty girls Margaery had had an eye on, but it had been years since they’d indulged in that particular pastime. Still, even such a simple kiss has Sansa’s skin tingling, a reminder that it’s been too long since she’s shared her bed with anyone.

But then, she reflects, taking a swallow of the cold, floral gin, what else is a music festival for but finding a willing partner to shag?

“The main stage is Loras’s baby, of course,” Marg says now, gesturing out the windows, “and he’s found...three, I think it is? Yes, three bands for that, but the gardens are my own particular project.”

Taking a sip of wine, Margaery smiles at Sansa before standing up, holding out one hand. Her right wrist is covered in bangle bracelets, her nails perfectly manicured and painted a pale shade of pink. For all that Margaery likes to play at being bohemian every once and awhile, she could not look more like what she is- a very wealthy woman playing flower child in her family’s gorgeous and ridiculously expensive Surrey mansion.

But then, Sansa thinks as she claps her hand in Margaery’s and rises to her feet, that’s what she’s always liked about Marg. Everything is artifice and honesty all at once, a description that could apply to her entire family, really. They may have this gorgeous home, and Margaery’s father may be knighted now, but the Tyrells are definitely nouveau riche compared to Sansa’s family.

Not that Margaery seems to give a fig.

“If you see any act worth noting,” Margaery says, linking her arm with Sansa’s and pulling her into the grand foyer, “let me know. I booked all sorts of people, but there could be some diamonds in the rough.”

“That’s my dad’s business,” Sansa reminds her with a smile, letting her hip bump Marg’s. “Not mine.”

The Stark family is ancient and has what Sansa’s friend Jeyne had once referred to as “Fuck You Money,” but Sansa’s grandfather had founded a fairly successful record company, one her father had taken over after Sansa’s grandfather and uncle had died in a plane crash. They’d mostly produced classical artists, concert pianists, traditional folk music, things like that. Sansa’s father had moved things in a slightly more modern direction, but, as Sansa steps out the back door and into the Tyrell’s famous gardens, she know that none of the acts Margaery had recruited for tonight will be something Winterfell Records would be interested in. She can already see an amp plugged in in a nearby alcove, and the bloke tuning his guitar is wearing leather trousers and no shirt.

No, this is _not_ Ned Stark’s speed at all. Sansa’s mother Catelyn had been the first non-classical act ever signed to Winterfell Records, but Sansa knew her father had only honored that contract (which had consisted of nothing more than a scribbled note from Sansa’s Uncle Brandon on a cocktail napkin) because he’d felt like he had to. And her mum had stopped making music when Robb was born, anyway, so her dad had easily gone back to the weird authentic Celtic music and symphonic recordings he’d felt more comfortable with.

Sansa has never given much thought to the family business, but as she hears the first strains of music start up from deeper in the gardens, something in her chest aches just the slightest bit.

“Promise me you’ll wander a bit?” Margaery asks, leaning close enough that her hair brushes Sansa’s shoulder. “Be sure you hear everything.”

Laughing, Sansa finishes her drink, the alcohol buzzing pleasantly through her system. “I doubt I can hear it all, Marg. Isn’t that the point? ‘Cacophony of Experience?’ I think that’s what Loras’s flier said.”

Margaery presses her still half-full glass of wine in Sansa’s hand, taking her empty tumbler easily. “Promise,” she repeats, and Sansa turns to her, smiling and ducking her head to kiss Margaery’s cheek.

“Everything,” she vows. “Every note.”

Her friend grins at that, lips curling in that way Sansa remembers from school. In the sunset, her top sparkles even more, and Sansa isn’t sure if she should envy or pity the girls who fall into Margaery’s web tonight.

“Excellent!” Marg trills. “And if you sign anyone, you owe me at least twenty-five percent.”

“I told you, that’s not my business,” Sansa counters, but Margaery is already drifting off, the last sunlight limning her in gold, and with a shake of her head, Sansa ventures a bit further into the garden.

She’d been right, assuming that Margaery would outdo herself here. Just a few feet into the hedges, Sansa finds herself catching her breath at the fairy lights strung overhead.  There are paper lanterns on iron posts here, too, and glass domes over flickering candles. The center of the gardens is a large circle, a fountain splashing in the middle, and paths branch off like the rays of the sun. Some of the paths are lined in strips of expensive Persian carpets, while others are dotted with flower petals in a myriad of colors.

Charmed, Sansa stands where she is, contemplating which path to take further into the gardens. Other music has begun now- the shirtless fellow in his leather trousers is strumming his electric guitar, but from deeper inside the hedges, she can hear other guitars, drums, and, she thinks, a harp. It should sound discordant, but somehow, it doesn’t, and she ruefully glances at the now-empty wine glass in her hand. Maybe she’s just a wee bit drunk, and that’s why all the music seems to be filling up the hollow spaces inside her, making her want to take off her shoes and dance.

Or maybe it’s that lately, she’s caught herself listening to the radio more closely, going to more and more concerts and music festivals. Sansa may have gone to university determined to go into fashion, but the music in her blood seems determined to assert itself. Just last week, Sansa had been so intent on the lovely song pouring from the speakers of her little MG, imagining how she would market such a throaty, sensual voice as Myranda Royce’s, picturing old Victorian theatres as venues, deep red for all of Myranda’s stage costumes that she’d missed her turn off for home.

But music was her father’s business, and now, her brother’s, not hers. If anything, Sansa had wanted to put as much distance between her and what her family did as she could. That’s why she’d been so intent on fashion and design, wanting to put her own stamp on something.

Except that, enjoyable as it had been, drawing dresses and draping fabric, it had never made her skin tingle the way standing at the entrance to the Tyrell gardens, listening to all these glorious sounds, does.

Alright, perhaps she’s more than a wee bit drunk.

Still, when a lovely girl in a diaphanous gown passes by with a tray of champagne glasses, Sansa still takes one, watching the girl sway down one of the carpeted paths. _Yes_ , this _part of things definitely bears Marg’s stamp_ Sansa thinks with a slight smirk, the bubbles from the wine tickling her nose as she drinks.

Apparently the third drink is all Sansa needs to make her toe off her silver heels. Letting them dangle from her fingers, she tries to decide which path to follow. In addition to the flower petals and carpets, there’s another one that appears to be covered in glitter and sparkling beads remarkably similar to those covering Margaery’s top.

Sansa nearly follows that one, liking the way the glitter and beads shimmer in the the fairy lights and lanterns, but then she looks down at her now bare feet, frowning. No, that won’t do at all. Besides, she can see a pretty dark-haired girl, cheeks pink, looking at that path before biting her lower lip and stepping down it, and Sansa realizes that this path probably does not lead to music at all.

Margaery has always been clever.

Glancing around again, Sansa has almost decided on the green carpeted path when she sees another, smaller path of deep blue petals winding away to her left. It’s a narrow squeeze through the hedges, and the other people she sees milling about are following the other, wider paths.

That only makes Sansa more determined to see where this less obvious path goes, and downing the last of her champagne, she steps onto it, the velvety petals soft underfoot.

It has to be the drinks, but as Sansa ventures further, the soft strains of an acoustic guitar reaching her ears, she swears her heart is beating faster, her blood thrumming.

Ducking beneath a branch, she rounds a corner and finds herself in a little alcove.

She isn’t the only person to have chosen this path; there’s a couple standing just in front of her, and sitting against the tall green hedge, her hair bright in the lantern light, a blonde all in white has her arms looped around her knees, looking up at the musician sitting on a simple wooden stool in the little hollow in the hedges.

There’s nothing special about him, really. Just another good looking guy with shaggy dark hair and a beard, wearing faded jeans and a denim shirt unbuttoned low enough that Sansa can see the glint of some kind of medallion around his neck. Sansa has seen dozens of blokes just like him at dozens of concert. And the song is simple. Old, Sansa thinks. In fact, she’s almost positive she’d heard it before on one of the records her dad produced, some old Scottish ballad about lost love and tragedy, the way they all are.

But the way he plays it makes it sounds new, his low, gruff voice plucking something inside her, making her fingers tighten around her empty champagne glass.

His fingers move over the guitar, and he never looks up, his gaze somewhere around his knees, his booted foot tapping out a soft rhythm against the rung of the stool.

There shouldn’t be anything charismatic about him, nothing that should make Sansa stay frozen to the spot, listening to him sing and hoping the song never ends.

It does end, though, and when he finally looks up and his dark eyes meet hers, Sansa knows that she either has to sign him to Winterfell Records or marry him.

Frankly, she’s not sure which is scarier. _  
_


End file.
